Page 107 of When Wildflowers Bloom

When I finally forced myself into the minivan—wet, cold, and devastated—I thought of going to my dad. But his calm and easy, “It will all work out, Little Bird,” isn’t what I need. I need all the thread to unravel before I try to put it back on the spool. I need someone to let me be hysterical.

Libby gives me dry clothes to change into and a fake beer, shrugging. A silent,I don’t have a damn clue how to help you.

Somehow, I laugh through my tears as I take it, and take a sip. Wishing it was real alcohol. Or marijuana. The thought sends a fresh batch of tears pouring out of my eyes.

Because I smoked marijuana with Veda.

Veda is dead.

Bo blames me.

I mentally recite the simple sentences over and over like a children’s book that’s filled with all the wrong words. A story no kid wants to read.

Finally, I’m dry enough to sit on her furniture, calm enough to tell her everything, and I do.

The sleeping. The medicine. The doctor’s appointment. The blood in the napkin.

When I finish, I drop my head back on the cushion, stare at the ceiling, and blow out a shaky breath.

“Okay, first of all, this is not your fault,” she says with genuine assurance. “Veda put you in an impossible position.”

Fresh tears burn the back of my eyes and I blink to keep them at bay.

“And I know it doesn’t seem like it, but Bo knows that.” I can’t tell if she believes what she says or not. Either way, I nod weakly.

She leans into me on the couch, head on my shoulder, and takes my hand in hers. “He’ll come around; he just needs time.”

“He was so mad, Libby. I’ve never seen him like that. The things he said…” Echoes of everything he yelled and a ghost of his rain-soaked face flash before me as my voice trails off.

We sit in silence, neither awkward nor comfortable. It’s just quiet other than the sound of the rain on the roof, the windows. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry about Veda.”

A tear runs down my face. “Me too.”

Sitting on the couch, steeping in my misery, it feels like some kind of cosmic joke. I spent my whole life planning and workingto never be the cause of this kind of heartache. The life-changing devastation of loss. Yet here it is. Happening. Because of me, even though it wasn’t my cancer.

When John comes home, same police uniform on from when I saw him this morning, he finds me dumped like roadkill on his couch.

He smiles the same way Libby did when she offered me the fake beer. Like I'm something fragile they don’t know how to handle and are terrified of breaking.

“You look like shit,” he says.

“That’s the look I was going for,” I say flatly.

He chuckles.

“You talk to Bo?” I hear myself ask.

He nods, eyes on his shoes, telling me everything I need to know.

Trying to stop more tears from welling, I jam my thumbs into my eyes until I see stars. It doesn’t work. I start to cry anyway.

“What would George Strait sing in a situation like this?” John asks, hooking his thumbs into the belt where a gun is holstered.

I make a noise that can neither be deciphered as a laugh or cry, wipe my eyes, and feel slightly macabre as I say, “‘Easy Come, Easy Go.’”

He rumbles with a laugh.

Libby walks over to him, pecks him on the cheek. “Take it easy on her, John.” She pats his chest with her palm. “I’ll start dinner.” She turns to me. “Birdie, you staying?”

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